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Updated: June 27, 2025
Amid the tumult of the storm, they heard a wailing sound, like a sob, in which a name was pronounced with difficulty: "Frantz! Frantz!" It was terrible and pitiful. When Christ on the Cross sent up to heaven His despairing cry: 'Eli, eli, lama sabachthani', they who heard him must have felt the same species of superstitious terror that suddenly seized upon Mademoiselle Planus.
Amid the tumult of the storm, they heard a wailing sound, like a sob, in which a name was pronounced with difficulty: "Frantz! Frantz!" It was terrible and pitiful. When Christ on the Cross sent up to heaven His despairing cry: 'Eli, eli, lama sabachthani', they who heard him must have felt the same species of superstitious terror that suddenly seized upon Mademoiselle Planus.
Hereupon the thumb-screw was put on her, and she was once more asked whether she would confess freely, but she only shook her poor blinded head and sighed with her dying Saviour, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" and then in Greek, "Thee mou, Thee mou, iuati me egkatelipes"; Whereat Dom.
It now only remains for us to return to the familiar human Stage; to the "Gala-Night, within the lonesome latter years," and be gay, and "hard," and "superficial"! That ice-bound Promontory into the Truth of Things has only known one Explorer whose "Eloi, Eloi Lama Sabachthani" was not the death-cry of his Pity. And that Explorer did we only dream of his Return?
It may be that every poet once in his lifetime has to come to this Calvary, to hang through his black hour on the cross, and send out after the faithless deity his Lama Sabachthani. For Rickman no agony could compare with that isolation and emptiness of soul. He could see nothing beyond that hour, for he had never felt anything like it before, not even on waking in the morning after getting drunk.
If he made the greatest thing in the world and life speaks to life as a magnet to the pole, what then? Can you break that strong, silent current by a breathed invocation? Did not the Man cry from the cross in his exquisite agony, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!"
And this heaviness waxed so dark sometimes that He almost persuaded Himself that His faith was gone; the clamours of mind so loud that the whisper of the heart was unheard, the desires for earthly peace so fierce that supernatural ambitions were silenced so dense was the gloom, that, hoping against hope, believing against knowledge, and loving against truth, He cried as One other had cried on another day like this Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani! ... But that, at least, He never failed to cry.
The hours of greatest suffering are the empty hours. 'Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? The hours when the mysterious sustaining and driving force is withdrawn, and a lassitude and despair comes over us like that of a deserted child: the hours when we feel we have reached the limit of service, when our brief span of usefulness is done.
And shall not the eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani of the forsaken heart sometimes ascend amid the woes and trials and wrongs of life, from the great mountain of human misery, the smoking Sinai, whose clouded summit quakes with the footsteps of Deity? I again resumed the manuscript, trembling for the revelations which it might make.
And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? which is, being interpreted, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? And some of them that stood by, when they heard it, said, Behold, he calleth Elias.
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